Rejoice in the rain

Monsoon Mubarak. Yes, the Monsoons are the most auspicious Festival of the Year. A blissful season that lasts for three months plus. The rains are welcomed with open arms, even the coconut trees display their exuberance with windblown swaying palms. The cool showers bring an end to weeks of sweating and swearing. 

Rains are so much of a vital phenomenon, the government has constituted the Indian Meteorological Department  (IMD). 

Operated by professionals who devout the entire month of May peering through their multi-crore Eye in the Sky, scanning the vast expanse of Indian Ocean for clouds, trying to pinpoint the arrival of the monsoon over the country’s coastline. They spend their workdays pouring over millions of digital computations whirring out of their super computer every second, non-stop, 24/7, for weeks. 

And yet, with all those super expensive toys, they never seem to get it right. However, it’s not their doing, it is really Mother Nature playing games with her flock. They publish promising “forecasts”, mostly hits and misses, but it eventually does rain. They will then take their official leave from June onwards, only to report back  on the last day of September, to declare the “official” end of the monsoon season. Great job guys, and thanks for all those “guesses”, which indeed made us happy, of course until the next wrong but wishful guess.

Soon, right as rain, IMD or not, mama monsoon does arrive, bringing comfort and relief to an entire nation. The onset of the rains will always be an exciting and thunderous annual event that lasts for over 90 days and celebrated with a thousand times more festive zest than Diwali, Easter, Eid, Christmas, Baishaki, Durga Puja and Gudi Padwa put together. Every cloud burst is indeed Mother Nature’s most vital offering on which our very survival on this planet depends. Besides the yearly downpour of precious life-sustaining water, the weather gets pleasantly cool, the dust and dried leaves are washed off the rooftops, once again we see that explosion of green across the countryside. The streets are washed and sparkling; bikes, buses, trucks, cars, all clean and shiny after months of being coated with grit and soot. 

Goa has been bundled into a top-loading washing machine and comes out all bright and fresh and green. Thanks to the rains, folks you now meet on the street shamelessly put on that captivating Goan smile. The inevitable annual cleansing begins; a good, loving, generous and dutiful mother doing her job with miraculous efficiency. And when it’s rainy, the choice is feni.“Hey mama, where’d you hide the garafao?”

Have you ever played a football match, or matches, on a rain-drenched pitch? Pure joy, perhaps the nearest thing to heaven. Don’t believe me? Take off your shoes, pull up your trousers, sludge on to the field and ask the boys. Join in and try dribbling that ball over 3 inches of mud and rain.

Kids love it the most, bless them. School’s open. The first day of school, the first day of the monsoon and St Anthony’s feast, somehow conspire to arrive together. For the children it’s all about the new uniform, new school bag, new books, a fancy water bottle, a new raincoat, gumboots, muddy puddles, and strangers, who within minutes are new school friends.

For fans of St Anthony, the patron saint of “Lost” causes, try this: Step out in the rain with unhindered abandon, dressed up of course, then lose yourself in the first heavenly downpour. That’s where you will “find” yourself. Try it, it’s like a new baptism, only this time you are aware of it.

“Why this damn shower, just when I have to go to work”. “The streets are too muddy; I don’t need to get mucked up”. “Waiting for an hour for a rickshaw”. “My hair will get messed up, and my clothes, how can I go anywhere?” No end to the grouching. Even worse, there are people, and I do not want to evoke the Columnist’s Curse, who will use the most innocuous word for this greatest moment of nature’s gifts, when things are going wrong for them they so insidiously proclaim that it was due to “inclement” weather. Inclement? How can one curse the rain!

For a moment, just stop to ponder: What would be the fallout for all of us if the rains do not arrive for even one season! 

A mother will always impart a lesson of immense wisdom along with her love and care. When it rains, there’s life-giving water for all, that means us, the walking, flying and even creatures that swim. The flowers, trees and farms that send us food; we are all intrinsically connected. When we breathe, the trees depend on and take up our breath, and we in turn absolutely depend on the oxygen they produce. It’s they for us, and we for them. We, they and everything in all creation are just one infinite organic entity. None can do without the other. 

And when the monsoon, officially or otherwise, comes to an end, the months that follow are thankfully cooler. Comes March, then April, and with it, the sweat and swear days begin. But mama nature to ensure our ongoing comfort, has a surprise ready, a sweet treat: mancurads. When you’ve had that first slice, the hot-weather blues dissolve in that trickle of juice running down your messy cheeks. Can anyone offer you a sweeter act of solace? By the end of May, as soon the last mancurad has been plucked and schlepped down, a thunderclap resoundingly announces: Nine months of monsoon festivities are around the corner.

Rejoice! It will soon be raining life and untold blessings. 

Barrish Mata ki Jai.

(The author is now a permanent resident of Goa after many years of living in Mumbai, New York and London)